“You seem to know an awful lot about this sort of thing, my friend,” Fondaras asked, pointedly.
“I have seven other voices in my head,” Rolof answered, after a pause. “That is a lot of experience to call upon. I paid a price for this knowledge, as you are fond of saying. I will not begrudge using it, at need. It helps me toward sanity.”
I wasn’t certain how to respond to that, so I started carving into the body of Stonetrunk, as respectfully as I could.
It was tedious work, I quickly realized. The Lesh’s outer bark was still thick, perhaps even thicker than in life as it had dried in the elements for a few years. Some was brittle enough for me to pull away with my hands, but there were other parts, within the body, that were woodier, and that had hardened by the heat of the lightning that had taken his life.
Ormar and Travid had hatchets, which helped. Occasionally Tyndal, Taren, and I would whack at it with our mageblades or use them as leverage to pry out pieces that we loosened. It was akin to carving a giant spoon, I suppose, or some other woodcraft. But the thought that we were dissecting the corpse of a thinking being was somehow sobering.
Of course, after meeting Avius, I’d never feel right about wearing dragon skin mail again, either. I live an interesting life.
We hacked and carved all afternoon, with a few of us resting and keeping watch from atop the wooden corpse. There were noises that echoed off the rocks, occasionally, and we all stood alert when we heard them. We couldn’t help making noise ourselves. Try splitting wood quietly, sometime.
As it turned out, we smelled the Kurja spawn that inevitably decided to investigate our disturbance long before we saw it. Lilastien was on watch, at the time, and she suddenly stopped scanning the horizon with the scope of her plasma rifle and sniffed.
“Sulphur,” she called out. “I smell Sulphur.”
“That is what the Kurja smell like,” Rolof agreed, making a face at the memory. “We should work more quickly!” he advised, renewing his carving with his blade with energy.
We all turned to our chopping and hacking with additional zest, bordering on panic. But just as Tyndal managed to expose the first portion of the striekema we sought, deep in the heart of Stonetrunk, we heard rocks grinding and a kind of dull thrum in the air.
“Here it comes!” Lilastien warned, from her perch, as she charged her plasma rifle. “Draw arms! Be ready!” Ameras joined her on the back of Stonetrunk, her tiny form nearly invisible amidst the remains of his canopy.
The rest of us drew our weapons and took what cover we could. All too soon the grinding and rumbling was so loud I could feel it in my teeth – and then we heard the Kurja’s call.
It was a horrific screech with a dreadful, head-ringing howl that sent chills down my spine in a way not even a dragon’s roar had done. I fumbled with the settings on the scope of my rifle and made sure that the snap on my pistol holster was undone. Soon the unfortunate sight of the beast appeared on the screen over the barrel. Magnification did not make it seem less appalling.
As it came into view, beak first, the slithering, skittling monster pushed past boulders like they were pebbles in search of its prey. In a moment it thrust its horror of a head toward us, and howled again, its beak splitting in three directions. Each one was ridged with a serrated bank of teeth, and the long gray tongue that flicked out was as long as a rope. There were six eyes around the beak, each one staring blankly at us as its horrible mane flopped behind them.
“I’m gonna throw up,” moaned Ormar, as he pulled some things from his belt pouches.
“Any chance it will just keep going?” asked Taren, hopefully.
“None,” Rolof said, shaking his head as he took up position behind the fallen Lesh. “They are voracious. They will eat anything that moves.”
“What if we don’t move?” Ormar asked in a moan of despair.
“Then it will be far easier to eat you,” Rolof answered.
“Fire!” Lilastien ordered, as she pulled her own trigger. I pulled mine a moment later, and then began pulling it as frantically as I could as the Kurja pushed its way toward us with surprising speed. It took a moment between discharges for the thing to be ready to fire again, but it was faster than a crossbow. And far more effective.
The red plasma bolts that erupted from our weapons tore into the flesh of the Kurja with brutal efficiency, searing and blasting as they impacted into its dreadful flesh. It screamed, filling the air with more of its foul call and making me want to wet myself. But I just kept firing. Up and down its body, at its ugly head, anywhere the screen said I had a good shot, I blasted the grotesque creature with a rising tide of fear. It wasn’t just moving; it was moving far more quickly than I thought it would. Why would it not die?
I suddenly realized why my ancestors had included such weapons as the plasma rifle in Unger Station’s inventory. I wished they had foreseen to include a few more.
While Travid’s rifle and Taren’s plasma pistol were affecting the horror, it was the plasma weapons that were doing the real damage. A nasty odor of ozone, Sulphur, and putrescence filled the air, along with the smell of burnt flesh as we pumped one plasma-hot bolt after another into the thing. When it was but twenty feet away, Taren threw his spear with a mighty heave and penetrated one of the thing’s six eyes. It howled in pain and indignity and rushed against us again just as Taren rolled out of the way.
“The eyes!” Lilastien called, shifting her position for a better vantage. “Blast the eyes!”
I shifted my target away from the body and took aim at the remaining eyes around that horrific beak. I managed to place a bolt directly between two of them, which was gratifying, while the firearms began to shoot in a frantic rhythm. Ormar rolled by the thing’s left side and hacked at one of its many segmented legs with his hatchet. Then he slid something under the body of the beast and rolled back out of the way.
Before he had regained his feet, an explosion far louder than the report of the rifles echoed across the hill, lifting the body of the beast into the air by six feet or more. Big chunks of flesh were torn away from its body, and it howled.
But it wasn’t dead, yet. Indeed, in its pain and agony it reared above us on the unwounded legs, its three-part beak spread wide in anger. That tongue flicked around like a whip, and it didn’t look anywhere close to being defeated.
In fact, it vomited a column of sickly green venom at us. Taren got splashed, as did Fondaras, before they rolled clear of the unexpected attack. They were both on Stonetrunk’s open and exposed trunk cavity and slid down from the great trunk just in time. I blasted at its face again but missed its beady eyes. Travid was a better shot: one of them exploded as his rifle round found its mark.
But it was the alchemist, not the ranger, who finally slew the beast. Ormar swung up on one of Stonetrunk’s lifeless limbs until he was nearly eye-level with the putrid monster. He drew back his arm, and when that disgusting head turned towards him, the beak grasping while the tongue whipped back and forth, he threw another missile neatly into the gaping maw. A moment later, the head exploded . . . sending a vile shower of sticky debris all over us.
But it was dead. The body fell beside Stonetrunk’s corpse and quivered its last . . . though the legs continued to twitch long after its head was gone.
“What was that?” asked Taren, as he wiped the ichor from his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Dragon Cotton,” the alchemist said, eyeing the corpse with satisfaction. “Like I used on that boulder, only a smaller quantity. Just a couple of little bombs of it. I prepared it for just this sort of situation. For things like the cyclops or . . . this monstrosity.”
“It’s highly effective,” Taren nodded, approvingly.
We shuffled around as we recovered from the fight and Lilastien tended to our wounds. Fondaras and Taren had both gotten splashed by the acidic venom the Kurja had used, but neither were serious. Ameras continued to scan the horizon for more of them while we took stock. That’s when Ormar discov
ered the unexpected boon the beast gave us.
“Hey, Minalan,” he called, “take a look at this!” He excitedly waved me up to where we had been carving into the dead Lesh’s corpse. “Smell that? That’s sulfuric acid,” he explained. “It’s covered the exposed tissue. And it’s destroying the exposed tissue.”
“It damn near destroyed me,” Taren nodded, as Lilastien wrapped his wrist with gauzy bandages.
“It probably uses it to denature the flesh of its prey outside the body,” Lilastien conjectured.
“Well, it’s denaturing what’s left of poor Stonetrunk,” Ormar assured. “More than half of that striekema core is exposed, now. In an hour, we should be able to pull it free.”
“We may not have that long,” Tyndal said, pointing to the quivering corpse of the Kurja. “Does that look familiar?”
I saw what he was indicating: a long dark shaft of wood protruding from the side of the beast. He went over and broke it off. There was only one fletching left, but it was easy to identify. They’d been used against me often enough.
“A gurvani arrow,” I identified. “The Enshadowed are lurking about.”
“They aren’t just lurking,” called Ameras from above, “a few of them approach us! From the south!”
“Gurvani?” snorted Ormar. “Let them come. I just slew a godsdamn giant maggot. Gurvani are nothing!”
“Defensive positions,” I ordered. “We have to hold them off long enough to allow the acid to work, or all is for naught!”
“Can I borrow that?” Fondaras asked, pointing to the pistol on my hip. “Perhaps it was the size of the foe, but I felt uncommonly vulnerable, when we were fighting.”
“You know how to use it?” I asked, surprised.
“Lilastien showed me,” he nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
I shrugged but passed the pistol over to him. My plasma rifle was still warm. It had another six hundred charges left in it. I didn’t think I’d need the pistol.
“They’re almost here!” warned Ameras. We took up positions once again behind the corpse of the Lesh.
Only the gurvani didn’t come out shooting. Indeed, only two of them appeared at all, and they bore a staff with a rag tied to the end. A white rag. And there was an Enshadowed with them, transformed into his warrior form. He bore a spear and a quiver on his back, and while he held a bow, he had no arrow nocked.
“Truce!” called the shorter gurvani, in Narasi. “I call for truce!” he yelled across the stony waste. He was standing just outside of bowshot. Plasma rifles have considerably greater range, I noted.
“What shall we do, Minalan?” Taren asked, quietly.
“We just fought that monster,” I reminded him. “I’m not sure if you’re anxious for another fight, but I’m not. Let’s hear him out. Act as my herald?”
“A pleasure,” Taren grunted, and then tore a piece from his tunic to tie onto the bloody tip of the spear he’d retrieved from the Kurja’s eye. He stood and waved it, and I had everyone make a show of lowering their weapons.
“Taren, Tyndal, with me,” I said, quietly. “Everyone else stay back, stay under cover, and prepare for treachery.” A chorus of nods confirmed the orders, and in a moment the three of us were marching across the barrens.
“Why, this is an unexpected pleasure,” the shorter gurvani said, in perfect Narasi. I was startled – this was no maragorku, this was a regular gurvani. He was dressed for fieldwork, however, not in armor, nor did he wear tribal insignia. I heard Tyndal gasp.
“Pritikin!” he declared when we got close enough. “I would have thought you’d be dead by now!”
“I live a life of untold fortune,” the gurvani said, smugly, as he handed his makeshift truce banner to the maragorku, behind him. “I haven’t seen you since Alshar,” he recalled. “Sir Tyndal, I believe.”
“Viscount Tyndal, now,” Tyndal corrected, gruffly.
“Ah, a raise in station – how ambitious!” the gurvan said. “This is Rindenmel, of the Enshadowed. He speaks no Narasi. He considers it a bastard tongue,” Pritikin said with a chuckle. “The gork’s name is Blekarl, but he doesn’t matter. He’s merely here to look intimidating.”
“We just fought a thirty-foot maggot, without magic,” I pointed out. “He’s going to have to try harder.”
“Master Pritikin, this is Magelord Taren, and this is Minalan the Spellmonger, Count of the Magelaw,” Tyndal introduced. “Pritikin serves . . . who are you serving, these days? Not Korbal, I’d wager. The last I heard he was in torpor and preparing for death.”
“Alas, my master ails,” sighed the gurvan with mock sorrow. “I must make my way the best that I can. I serve Karakush. A Nemovort of great power and subtlety. On a secret mission,” he added.
“A mission to contact the vassals of the Formless,” Taren said, his eyes narrowing.
“So, you have heard of it,” Pritikin nodded, undisturbed. “I must see to our counterintelligence,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Such things have gone into the chamberpot since Korbal . . . became indisposed. Is Terleman with you? I was hoping to meet him and congratulate him on defeating Gaja-Katar. That was truly delightful to hear about. But Karakush is no Gaja-Katar. He is striving to put things right, after Shakathet lost so abysmally.”
“Have you not learned it does not pay to challenge the Spellmonger?” I asked, puffing up a little. “If I was afraid of your new master, I would never have come on this expedition.”
“Just why did you come on this expedition?” Pritikin asked. “It does not make much sense, considering the position your realm is in.”
“Research,” I shrugged. “I’ve defeated two Nemovorti and their armies in less than six months. I felt owed a holiday before I defeat the third.”
“You may find such a victory harder, against Karakush, Count Minalan,” Pritikin clucked. “He is not a warrior. He is a sorcerer, and one of great cunning and immense strategies. He’s even managed to learn to read Narasi,” he added, smugly. “He takes a great interest in the potential of your people.”
“Why call a truce, if you plan on attacking Minalan while he is here?” Taren asked, warily. “We know you covet his Magolith to restore your master.”
“It was not my task to attack Minalan,” sighed Pritikin. “That was left to others considered better equipped to handle the matter. No, I was sent here to . . . well, no need to give you all the details. But I will do my duty and let others do theirs. Indeed, I have a great deal of respect for the Spellmonger,” he admitted.
He was interrupted by the Enshadowed, behind him, who shot him a question in his own language. Pritikin replied, annoyed, in the same language.
“Barbarian!” he snorted when he was finished. “He grows impatient with our parley. He feels we should either attack or flee. He has no imagination, and he treats me like scum. They put him over me because . . . well, because he is an Alka Alon, and I am a mere humble gurvani. Untrustworthy, they say.”
“Well, imagine that,” Tyndal said, evenly.
“I agree! That’s outrageous! Why, I’ve advanced our cause more than most of the Nemovorti, and certainly more than the Enshadowed. They never would have discovered Korbal’s tomb if it hadn’t been for my efforts.”
“Remind me to express my appreciation for that, some day,” Tyndal growled.
“Truce, Viscount!” Pritikin reminded him. “We get no respect in our own armies, alas. Which is why I serve Karakush, now. He has a more enlightened approach to my people. And yours,” he emphasized. “He feels that conquest, not elimination and extinction, is a better goal for us. I cannot disagree. I have grown fond of some of your humani customs. Such as truces,” he chuckled. “Quite civilized of you.”
“He will have no better luck than his predecessors,” I dismissed. “Nor will he achieve what he desires with the Kurja.”
“On the contrary, we’ve already completed our mission,” he said, proudly. “Tell me, did you see the dragon, yet?” he baited.
“The one your side lost?” I asked. “Why, yes. She’s delightful. But she has a low opinion of her former captors.”
“You . . . spoke to her?” he asked, in puzzled disbelief.
“I’m the Spellmonger,” I shrugged. “That sort of thing happens to me. But I would not like to be a gurvani in her domain. She holds a very distinct grudge.”
“I . . . I see,” Pritikin,” nodded, his eyes narrowing even further. He paused to chatter at the Enshadowed in his language, and elicited a bark of laughter from the Alka Alon, followed by a comment. “My colleague doubts your veracity,” he reported. “Rindenmel considers you ignorant animals, not much better than my people. He does not believe that you approached the dragon.”
“Close enough to kiss her,” I chuckled. “But he’s welcomed to doubt me, and approach her himself. But what of your comrades?” I asked. “More than forty gurvani were in your party, when you crossed the wastes. How have you fared?”
“Poorly, in places,” he said with a sigh. “We lost a tithe of our forces in the wastes. Then two more to your snipers, before we split our forces. I know not how they fare, but we lost six more in party. The Kurja were difficult to converse with,” he said, ruefully. “But we achieved our aim. Did you achieve yours?” he taunted.
“It’s ongoing,” I shrugged. “Just a little research holiday to the realm of the jevolar.”
“And that, of course, has nothing to do with the scion of the Aronin,” he agreed, sarcastically, “or the vault of the Alka Alon. Purely a coincidence.”
“Is that here?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Where?”
“If I knew, I would not tell you,” dismissed the gurvan. “But I don’t believe you. I am surprisingly well-informed about your efforts. For example, that big project in Enultramar you’re trying to keep secret. Or the Dradrien you have building weapons for you, now. Impressive matters,” he praised. “Not enough to prevail against us, but impressive.”
“We destroyed your last, best army with farm animals,” Taren said, bluntly. “We’re not terribly impressed with your efforts.”
“Don’t mistake a sacrifice at the beginning of the game for weakness,” the gurvan counseled. “Your own tenure at Castle Salaisus is well known, Magelord Taren. You spoke with the dead. Did you not think that there were ears overhearing you?”
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